Nightmares and Playtime

TINA A. BROWNThe Hartford Courant

Takira came back from her "vacation" in a better mood. But the reality of home life soon set in. There were the daily ministrations required for Takira to heal: ointment for her stitches and scars, a special mouthwash to keep infections from setting in. There would be long cab trips to New Haven to visit her surgeons and a dentist, and a schedule of speech therapy and psychological counseling in Hartford.

Money was also an issue. Delphine received money from the state to care for her niece Shaundalyn's children, as well as a 2-year-old girl she had taken in. Takira's hospital care and therapy were covered by health insurance, but there were extra expenses for medical supplies - such as cotton swabs for cleaning her mouth, and Boost, the liquid nutritional supplement. Delphine had to fight for cab fare when her insurance company balked at the expense and told her she and Takira would have to take the 80-mile round-trip to New Haven by bus or train.

Several groups had raised money for Takira after the shooting. Some did not consult with Delphine about her needs, and there was confusion about how the money should be spent. When the Ebony Horsewomen learned most of Takira's medical bills would be covered, they put the money they had raised into an educational fund. When Delphine asked for help with medical supplies, the group resisted giving money directly to her.

One day a group of police officers rode up on their big motorcycles to visit Takira and invite her to a fundraising party. The roar of the bikes scared Takira, and she ran inside, balled up under a window and cried. When Delphine told the officers about her trouble with other fundraisers, the men reached in their pockets and gave her more than $60, enough to buy what Takira needed for the time being.

Even before the shooting, the crack of gunfire and fireworks had often alarmed Takira and the rest of the children, who'd snuggle up to Delphine for comfort. The noises came mostly from the Cabot Street area, where young drug dealers raced in cars and hung out on concrete steps without the permission of homeowners.

And now, since her time in the hospital, Takira was having nightmares.

On Aug. 1, Delphine sat on her living room sofa folding laundry in front of the wide screen television. A daytime soap opera was on, the sound muted. The night before, Takira had found a bag in the apartment containing the bloodied clothes she had been wearing the day of the shooting, cut up by the hospital workers, with a pink sandal missing. That night, she had relived the shooting in a nightmare.

"She jumps up," Delphine said, as Takira came into the room and sat in a living room chair. What did she say? I asked. "Ma. Ma," Delphine recalled. Takira had tugged her awake. "I keep dreaming about the accident. I keep thinking about what happened," Takira had told her.

As the nightmares worsened, so did Takira's mood, Delphine said. She made Takira her favorite, a peanut butter and strawberry jelly sandwich, later in the day, hoping it would cheer her up. But the peanut butter was too thick to swallow, and she could not feel the beads of jelly stuck to her lips and chin.

In mid-afternoon, Takira heard children playing. For the first time since coming home, she and her sister ventured outside. Before, Takira had been a neighborhood bully who instigated fights. Now, something was different. The children, who had feared Takira, stared at the scars around her neck and cheeks. A boy from next door called her scar-face. Takara wanted to stay and fight. But Takira ran down the sidewalk, up the stairs to her building and up into the second-floor apartment.

The shooting had changed the little girl, normally so eager to run outside and play. Now, "She'll want to play one minute and then, she gets mean and doesn't want to talk to anybody. It's scary." Delphine said.